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Sometimes, hiking up a spring mountain, I slow through a cold presence, a ghost disassociated from any wind, the busy loam above me warm with ants. It’s not old winter’s residuum, either.

This cold has eyes, not menacing or even intent ones, but the limpid eyes of the cold dead, the kind of eyes that feel every nape’s tooth marks. This cold moves as slowly as black water, silently as the far side of fish: unpied, canopied – the crosshatch of hawks.

My cold is a watcher and a gift, the grave’s tossed coin, the dispossession of stone..

An interesting discussion is definitely worth comment.
I do believe that you ought to write more on this topic, it may not be a taboo matter but usually people do not talk about these issues.
To the next! All the best!!

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Would you be interested in trading links or maybe guest writing a
blog article or vice-versa? My website discusses a lot of the same topics as
yours and I believe we could greatly benefit from each other.

If you’re interested feel free to shoot me an email.
I look forward to hearing from you! Terrific blog by the way!